


I Like it When You Sleep, for You are so Beautiful, Yet so Unaware of It

by Kylo Hux (Loki_Likey_Thor_Odinson)



Series: You Touched Me, and Suddenly, I was a Lilac Sky [44]
Category: Red Dragon - Thomas Harris, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Red Dragon (Harris) Fusion, Ex-Marine Ben Solo, Kidnapping, M/M, Marine Ben Solo, Masturbation, Mild Sexual Content, Personal Trainer Ben Solo, Sexual Content, Stalking, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loki_Likey_Thor_Odinson/pseuds/Kylo%20Hux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's a work of art, and Hux just wants to frame him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [macabreverbosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabreverbosity/gifts).



> _I admit, I used the scene from the book very heavily; I also used some of Harris' own sentences. I own nothing other than my own words; no copyright is intended at all._

Hux had gotten home at around 11pm, that night. His large house stood alone at the end of a long, gravel path that took you down a twisting route, far from the main road that could drive you all the way through rural Ohio. Hux like that; it kept unwanted guests away – his nearest neighbour was a two mile distance away from him.  
  
Upon entering his accommodation, the first thing Hux did was quietly turn the lights on and stand in the hallway. His eyes swept from side to side, making sure the hallway looked undisturbed before he began his careful tour through the house, turning on every light, ensuring that there was no one present in the dark, dusty corners of each room. There had been a burglary attempt four years before, and it make Hux anxious.  
  
Visitors, or other potential burglars would not think that Hux lived alone, should they ever step foot inside the large house. His parents things were still around – his mother’s lavish, expensive dresses were still in her wardrobe; his father’s military uniform and medals were still on display in the sitting room.  
  
Once completely satisfied that he was alone in his house, Hux went for a shower.  
  
When he finally stepped out, Hux walked slowly down the stairs, listening to the sound of his bare feet make soft pats against the cold, hard wood. The synthetic silk of his kimono rubbed pleasantly over the top of his thighs as he lay down on the narrow bed he had owned since childhood, and a gentle spark of pleasure slipped through his body.  
  
His mother’s hairdryer still occupied the space on top of his bedside table, and he sat back up, attaching the cap to the contraption.  
  
Whilst he dried his hair, he thumbed through an old issue of _Vogue_ , the plasticized girls inside the pages always shocked him; such beautiful works of art turned into hideous Barbie dolls.  
  
A spark of excitement slowly danced down his spine, and carefully, he swivelled the chrome head of his reading lamp to light the wall at the foot of the bed. The pale face of Senator Organa’s son was illuminated, picture after picture tacked to the wall.  
  
The young man had stunned Hux the first time he had seen him, coming into the small photo shop to buy a new camera; blowing $986 as though it were nothing. The teenager had been polite, nodding his head, smiling throughout the whole transaction; he hadn’t batted an eye when the register went offline, needing a twenty minute system reboot.  
  
The other thing he hadn’t batted an eyelid at was the scar that marred Hux’s upper lip, causing him to slur his ‘s’ when he called the young man _Sir_. He’d _complimented_ Hux when the clerk had flinched away from his own voice; ‘ _I think it’s quirky, not everyone has one, don’t be ashamed; it’s just another part of you._ ’  
  
The words had given Hux the confidence boost he had sorely needed that day, and the words had stuck in his head every day since.  
  
By chance, he had seen the teen just two days later, immersing himself in nature photography in the park just over the road from Hux’s shop. Hux had dared to take a few grainy photos on his phone and then settled for staring at the teen through the window.  
  
After a week, he dared to get a Polaroid camera, and dared to close for lunch, making his way to the park. He had taken half-decent photos of the surrounding wildlife, before he carefully angled his camera to take photos of the teen; Ben, his name was, if Hux recalled correctly.  
  
It wasn’t long after that the man had found himself hidden away in his blacked-out van, professional camera taking photos of Ben from a distance; his finger stroked down the cheek of the teen in one photo – Hux’s favourite photo.  
  
Ben was in mid-laugh, head thrown back at a joke his friend had told him, eyes squinted, but still bright between the lashes, his lips stretched wide and Hux had only just managed to catch the button of his camera before Ben had stopped laughing.  
  
He felt the beginnings of an erection.  
  
He had wanted to go through this slowly, to savour the feeling, to make it _last_ , but now he could not wait.  
  
Hux closed the heavy draperies over the window in the downstairs parlour. He set up his video camera and selected the _project_ mode. He set his screen up.  
  
His Father had a soft leather armchair in the living room, deep seated, so deep that one could get lost in the chair for a day and not have a care in the world. Hux was glad. It was comfy. He draped a towel over the arm of the chair.  
  
He reached over and pressed the button on top of his video camera to start his movie.  
  
A black room appeared, the soft motions of movement barely able to be seen, the camera moving from side to side as Hux had worn it around his neck, climbing the stairs in almost silence. The soft sounds of his panting could be heard on the video, and it made him flinch away as though he had put his hand on a hot plate.  
  
There’s the sound of footfall on the wooden floor at the top of the stairs, a door creaking, and then Ben Organa-Solo’s pale face illuminates the screen.  
  
He’s asleep, curled up in his _Star Wars_ duvet; the curtains shared the same pattern.  
  
The full moon openly pours in through the window, invited in by the absence of the usually blocking curtains, and it’s falling on Ben’s face as he inhales and exhales peacefully, his eyelids twitching softly as he enters REM sleep.  
  
The red illuminated numbers flashing on the clock on the bedside table read 03:47.  
  
Ben’s right arm stretches out, knocking against his wooden bed head; a knuckle cracks, the teen frowns, and rolls over. His duvet gets pulled down by his legs uncurling. His chest is on show. So are his abdominal muscles.  
  
Hux improves his erection with his fist.  
  
The camera blurs as it zooms in on the teen’s face; his eyelashes are spread delicately over the tops of his high cheekbones, a contrast of black on his pale, almost white-illuminated skin. His pale pinks are parted, the soft huffs of his breath able to be heard on the audio. His tongue flicks out once or twice.  
  
The camera moves down, focusing on the teen’s chest for a moment; his pectorials stand out, they’ve come from hard work – Hux has a video of the teen in the gym, lifting his weights and attacking a punching bag with such animosity, it had scared the man.  
  
The camera zooms in on the set of eight abdominal muscles that are on show, glowing in the moonlight. The muscles are taught, and there’s a jolt in the video where Hux had to stop his hand reaching out to stroke over them.  
  
He’d like to stroke over them.  
To feel them.  
To make the teen shudder with his feather light touch.  
  
Ben kicks out a little, frowning in his sleep, making a soft noise of aggravation. The camera stops moving. Hux freezes where he stands.  
  
He thinks for a minute that the teen is awakening, but he settles back down almost instantaneously, and Hux continues his tour of his body. The camera zooms in a little more on the deep v-lines on the teen’s groin, and his hand reaches out.  
  
He can see on the video the teen doesn’t wear underwear in his sleep.  
  
Watching the video now, in the privacy of the parlour, Hux is covered in a thin sheen of sweat; his tongue flicks out constantly, the scar on his upper lip wet and shiny as he continues to stimulate himself.  
  
At the height of his pleasure, he feels the disappointment in his bones as Ben moans out, the soft ‘ _mom?_ ’ slipping over his lips. There was no elegance in the way Hux jerked away from the bed, the soft pattering of his bare feet on the wooden floor echoing around the recording.  
  
It was beautiful anyway. Watching the recorded footage back was beautiful, but screen Ben wasn’t as beautiful as real life Ben, asleep and unaware of the world.  
  
The major flaw, Hux felt, was that the film did not replicate the teenager’s ethereal beauty; the elven look he had, the way his skin seemed to glow from inside; and it was lacking in audio – it needed the teenager’s voice, a voice of musical genius; the capacity to sell records lay in that voice.  
  
Well. He had many more films to make and, with experience, he hoped he could capture just what he wanted too; the aesthetic beauty that Ben Solo emitted every second of every day.  
  
With a soft cry, Hux let his head tilt back as the screen went to black, and felt the warm liquid slipping over his hand in disgust. His high dissipating quickly, his clean hand reached for the towel, cleaning himself up.  
  
He had to press on soon; he needed more content, more photos, more footage.  
  
Well; he was in luck.  
  
Ben Solo would be making an appearance at his mother’s speech in the middle of town tomorrow.  
  
Without his body guard.  
  
With a smile on his face, Hux stood; deciding to leave his personal cinema how it was for now, he turned on his heel, returning to the narrow bed he had owned since childhood.  
  
Tomorrow is another day, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, some of the words are taken explicitly from _Red Dragon_. I own nothing other than my own words.

The Senator rally was held in the Hueston Woods State Park.   
  
Hux had found it to drag on; it had struck noon and the sun had reached the highest point in the sky, beating down on him, making his skin secrete liquid and stick to his clothes. People surrounded him, people he truly didn’t want to be around – many people had been glancing at the scar on his upper lip, making him self-conscious, making him hide his mouth behind his camera, focussing on getting the pictures he sorely needed to complete his collection.  
  
Ben had been there – of course he had been there; he was the Senator’s only son, and was said to give her advice on official matters of business if she ever needed it. He was a strong support, smiling and waving at the crowd, but standing straight backed behind his mother, leaning forward to pat her shoulder when her confidence seemed to waver.  
  
That was the thing about Senator Leia Organa; she was a confident woman, strong – she had reached the position of Senator whilst going through a messy divorce with her husband – Han Solo; Ben’s father and custodian of his younger sister, Rey. Hux had followed the news with interest, watching how her son had always been by her side when she needed him the most.  
  
He was a stereotypical ‘mama’s boy’, Hux assumed.  
  
Back in his rooms now, locked away in his house, away from prying eyes – and much more confident in himself – Hux carefully looked loaded his images from the day on his computer, flicking through them with ease.  
  
Computers were horrendous things, but they made editing people out of his photos of Ben much easier. He could edit the lighting; add filters to add more beauty to the images – not to Ben, of course, just to the backgrounds to make them more aesthetically pleasing.  
  
Ben had been in a suit of a denim blue colour, a simple black polo shirt on underneath. His denim jeans matched the colour – and even the style of the suit – and his new black shoes shone under the sun’s beams.  
  
The fabric hugged the frame of Ben’s body, seeming to tuck in to his curves, showing them off. The shoulders of his suit jacket rippled with the muscles underneath, it stretched across the muscles in his arms. The polo shirt got sweaty; it stuck to his abs, accentuating them and causing Hux to shift uncomfortably where he stood. The jeans – or should Hux refer to them as skinny jeans – clung to every muscle in Ben’s legs, every inch of skin.  
  
Hux remembered reading that Ben had joined the Marines when he turned 18, only to be honourably discharged on his first mission; he’d broken his collar bone, and the healing process had taken much too long for the Marines to allow him back into the dirty field of battle.  
  
Hux held respect for the teen, now 19, almost 20.  
  
The jeans also hadn’t done much in hiding the gentle bulge at the man’s crotch.   
  
  
Hux stared at the teen’s bulge now, shuddering in his seat before he hastily closed the image he had been working on. Selecting all the images he had selected as the perfect ones, he hit print and stood to take a shower.

-xox-

At midnight, the light above Hux’s desk still burned low in the dark light. His pictures of Ben were spread around the wooden surface. Gloss paper decorated the floor where Hux had been clipping for his scrapbook. The great scrapbook itself stood open beneath a large picture of Ben that Hux had decided to stick to his wall, the tacks as far away from the image as he could get them. Glue still dried in the scrapbook, the pictures of Ben fastened into the pages for good.  
  
But Hux had long since left his desk.  
  
He was sitting on his basement stairs in the cool must of earth and mildew. The beam from the candle he had lit flickered over the draped furniture, the dusty backs of the great mirrors that once hung in the house and now leaned against the walls.  
  
The flickering light of the candle stopped on a trunk in the corner of the room, half covered with a dust sheet – the usual dark brown of the wood was painted grey with inches of the substance. Cobwebs whispered over Hux’s face as he walked towards it. The dust made him sneeze as he pulled off the dust cover.  
  
He blinked back the tears and held his candle over the old oak trunk, he had uncovered. His left hand reached down to tug it open, the wood groaning and the hinges squeaking in protest.  
  
It had been his Father’s army trunk from the 1940s, provided by the American government when his Father hit the rank of General.   
  
Inside the trunk, sat the objects of his desire.  
  
A large wind of rope, frayed and worn in colour, but still strong. It would twist around a pair of strong wrists without much hassle, unable to be struggled out of. Duct tape, a brand new roll, lay next to it. Strong, unable to be licked off, or for muscles to struggle underneath the stick, loosening the bond enough to be pushed off with a tongue.  
  
That would be essential if Hux wasn’t to alert security.  
  
A black-bladed knife almost couldn’t be seen in the dark of the trunk, only able to be seen by the wooden stripes on the handle and the gentle glint of the blade in the still-flickering light of his candle. His hand reached in and carefully pulled it out, gripping the handle with a feather light hold – but still strong enough to drive the knife into someone’s stomach, pulling their guts back out with the metal.  
  
It had been his Father’s in World War II, it had seen many an enemy fall; many people had fallen to the blade, bleeding out at his Father’s feet. Sniffing the blade carefully, the tang of rust and blood filled Hux’s sense of smell.  
  
It was perfect for the job; to be held against a small throat – to coerce Ben into leaving quietly and calmly. He might have issues with the previous Marine later on down the road, but that’s what the chains were for, curled in the corner of the trunk.  
  
Hux smiled and carefully replaced the archaic knife into the trunk, closing it.  
  
_Soon_.  
  
Soon, he would make his move.  
  
Soon, Ben Solo would be _his_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a lot of this was written with the help of the book, and I lifted Harris' own words. I own nothing, I don't own the characters or the words lifted from the book. I own only my own words that I added.

When Ben Solo left his gym training session at 9pm on Tuesday, he was tired, but happy. He had pushed himself hard this session, breaking his previous records set just last week and was already planning his next session in his head.   
  
When his Mother’s Senator rallies were finished, he’d be able to get back to the gym and do his training sessions more regularly, but until then, he was stuck with weekly workouts.   
  
The gym was talking with him, asking him if he’d consider becoming a personal trainer at the gym; even if it were only for one class a week. The pay wouldn’t be great but money didn’t really matter to Ben. The contact had been written up and they were just waiting on the ex-Marine to think the offer over before it was pulled out for signing.  
  
Having read it, Ben had found the hourly weekly session fair.  
  
He was almost possessed with the idea of helping people; helping people to reach their goals and to better themselves. Buried under the strain of helping his Mother with her Senator rallies, helping her to gain votes – that had buried his old hopes under tons of paperwork and social meetings.  
  
Now, they stirred and strained, ready to rise once more.  
  
Ben sighed heavily as he approached his car in the gym parking lot. It should normally be empty, but there was a navy blue van parked in the spot next to his Ferrari.  
  
And it was over the line. It crowded into the space that he had so carefully parked his car into.  
  
Ben opened his door hard, banging the side of the van and leaving a dent and a scratch. He snorted. That would teach the inconsiderate bastard.  
  
Ben was throwing his gym bag into the back seat when the van door opened behind him. He was turning, had half turned, when the force of a punch slammed into his neck, hitting the pressure point hidden beneath the skin. He tried to get his hands up, but his knees were buckling underneath him and the ground was getting closer.  Something wet was held over his mouth and nose and Ben fought back, his Marine training coming back to him.  
  
He struggled not to breath for a moment, and he held it for a good forty seconds as he struggled, but his chest heaved to draw oxygen into his lungs.  
  
When it did, it sucked in chloroform.

-xox-

Hux parked the van behind his house, climbed out and stretched. He had to fight a crosswind all the way back from the main Ohio city and his arms were tired. He studied the night sky. The Perseid meteor shower was due soon, and he mustn’t miss it.  
  
Hux unlocked the back door and made his routine search of the house. When he returned to the van, he wore a stocking mask and pushed an old wheelchair of his Mother’s.  
  
He opened the van and attached the ramp he had previously helped his Mother with.  
  
Then he took a look at Ben Solo, lit from the dying light of the overhead lamp in the cab.  
  
Though the teen was only semi-conscious, he did not slump. He sat up very straight, his head against the cold metal wall. Hux assumed that it was not a comfy position; the metal peeling and jagged in areas.  
Ben’s eyes shone with confusion, but also determination, glaring at the man that had kidnapped him with such reverence, Hux took a step back.  
Ben wore nothing but his underwear and a gag of duct tape. His hands were bound behind his back, duct tape wiring them together and chains wrapped tightly around them, keeping them from bending. The chains had been looped through a self installed hook in the wall, preventing the teen from moving. His ankles had been given the same treatment.  
  
Hux leaned forward to remove the duct tape from Ben’s mouth, and the teen spat at him. Hux grimaced as he wiped the saliva from his face, glaring at him.  
  
Hux climbed into the van, fishing the key for the padlocks out of his pocket. “I’m going to unchain your hand _s_ now, and you’re going to get into the wheelchair. I will then re chain you. If you act out, I won’t he _s_ itate to drug you again.”  
  
Ben scowled but turned his head away, glaring daggers at the floor. Hux was sure if it were possible, the van would be in flames. Hux waited a few more moments before he knelt down in front of the teen, arms reaching around him to carefully unlock the padlock.   
  
The chains slackened and Ben’s wrists twisted; Hux hesitated, but it was merely to get blood circulation moving again. He clambered out of the van and twisted the wheelchair around to point towards the van. Ben raised an eyebrow, but quickly understood that Hux wanted him to twist around so his back was to the wheelchair. He begrudgingly did so and sat patiently, waiting for Hux to unchain his ankles.  
  
Hux opened the padlock quickly, threading the chain out of the hook he had installed before he chained them once more. Ben shuffled backwards, down the ramp before easing himself into the wheelchair.  
  
For a moment, Hux thought that Ben might attack him, but he slowly got into the wheelchair, holding his arms behind it. Hux chained them before wrapping the chains around the handles. Wheeling Ben inside, Hux parked him in the corner of the parlour, as though he had misbehaved.  
  
“Are you too cool? Would you like a blanket?”  
  
Ben didn’t answer. The odour of chloroform hung on him.  
  
“I’ll get you a blanket.” Hux retrieved an afghan from the couch and tucked it around Ben, resting underneath his chin, and then pressed an ammonia bottle under his nose.  
  
The rest of the fog from the chloroform lifted from Ben’s mind and he coughed a little. The walls around him were a blur.  
  
“Where am I?”  
  
The voice behind him: “Your new home, Mr. Organa. You’ll be fine.”  
  
“My arms hurt, can you at least loosen the chains?”  
  
“No. You re _s_ t here. I’ll be with you _s_ hortly.”  
  
“Let me lie down. Listen, I want you to call my Mother’s office.”  
  
Footsteps sounded, heading away.  
  
“What am I doing here?” Panic was setting in, and the question became shrill at the end.  
  
The answer came from far behind him. “Falling, Mr. Organa.”  
  
Ben heard footsteps climbing up stairs. A shower began running. His head was become clearer now; he could remember leaving the gym, getting to his car... but the rest of it was a blur. The side of his neck was throbbing and the scent of chloroform hung over him like a raincloud. He knew more than enough to understand he had been kidnapped; probably to be held for a ransom against his Mother’s campaign. Opening his mouth wide, he inhaled deeply. His heart beat echoed in his ears.  
  
Ben hoped he was asleep. He tried to shift his arms around, trying to loosen the chains on his wrists, increasing his efforts deliberately until the pain in his shoulders was enough to wake him from any form of dream. He wasn’t asleep. He had definitely been kidnapped. His Marine training came back to him.  
  
By straining, he could see how his wrists were chained for a few seconds before the awkward angle his spine was in forced him to face the wall once more. He could see how he was fastened, an almost impossible to break knot of chains that couldn’t be unfastened in the position he was sat.  
  
Ben thought he heard footsteps on the floor boards above him, but then again, they could have been his heart beat.  
  
He tried to think; he strained his mind. _Keep calm, don’t panic and **think** , Ben; you’ve been trained for this_, he murmured to himself.   
  
The stairs creaked as his captor came down them.  
  
Ben felt the weight of him in every step. The weight was a presence behind him now.  
  
It took Ben to speak half a sentence before he could raise the volume of his voice.  
  
“I haven’t seen your face, my vision was much too blurred. I can’t identify you. I don’t know who you are, what you look like or who you work for. My Mother, my Mother is the Senator of Ohio; she’ll pay a big reward for me. Probably half a million, a million maybe; a _million_ dollars.”  
  
Silence came from behind him, then the squeak of couch springs. He was sitting down, then.  
  
“What do you think, Mr. Organa?”  
  
_Put the fear away and think, **now**. He hasn’t decided to kill you, yet, think for your goddamn life.  
  
_ “What do you _think_ , Mr. Organa?”  
  
“I’m not entirely sure what has happened to me.”  
  
“Do you know who I am, Mr. Organa?”  
  
“No. I don’t think I want to know.”  
  
“According to you, I’m a quirky young man. You _s_ miled at me, rea _ss_ ured me that I wa _s_ a man of worth.”  
  
If this were a normal situation, Hux would have avoided the sibilant /s/ in the words he spoke. In the presence of this very audience, far away from laughter, he was free. “You know who I am now, don’t you?”  
  
_Don’t lie, Ben, think fast_. “Yes. Yes, I do.”  
  
“Why did you speak such things to me?”  
  
“I spoke them because they were the truth – although now I’m not so sure you were worthy of such words.”  
  
“Do you understand what I am doing, Mr. Organa?”  
  
_Understand_. There it was. Everyone has a motive for the things they do; most people just want themselves or their actions to be understood. Ben closed his eyes. Here was a chance he could exploit if he just swung hard. “No, not currently; but I think I have an opportunity to understand.”  
  
“Do you feel privileged?”  
  
“Honestly, the chances I have been given in life; my Mother becoming Senator, my Father gaining money over my childhood, have entitled me to a privileged life. I’m a rich white kid that was given everything he ever wanted; some- no, _most_ would call me a spoilt little brat. But all I have ever done throughout my teenage years is to try to make the world a better place. I went into the Marines to try and make a change to this shitty world. Every post I have ever made in recent years on social media has been to highlight issues and to try and make a change. I got famous because of my Mother, and believe me I never wanted fame, but I use it to try and do as much good as I can.” Ben paused, his tongue flickering out to wet his cracked lips. “But I’ll tell you this, man to man. I’m _scared_.”

“Man to man... man to man. You use that expression to imply frankness, Mr. Organa. I appreciate that. But you see; you are not a man. You are still a child in the ways of the world. You say you are frightened... Do you believe that God is watching us right now, Mr. Organa?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Are you praying to Him right now?”  
  
“Sometimes I pray. Honestly, I pray mostly when I’m scared. I used to pray a lot when I was in the Marines; pray that I would live to see another day; that I’d come home to my Mother and baby sister.”  
  
“And does God help you?”  
  
“I don’t know. I don’t think about it afterwards. I probably should.”  
  
“You ought to. Ye _s_ , you ought to. There is a great deal of things that you should understand. In a little while, I will help you too. Will you excuse me for a moment?”  
  
“Of course.” It wasn’t like Ben had much of a choice in the matter.  
  
Footsteps echoed around his hearing, heading out of the room. There was the distinctive slide and rattle of a kitchen drawer. Ben had read more than enough crime reports and news articles to know how handy kitchen utensils were in murders. Police reports really changed your view of kitchens forever. Water was running now.  
  
Ben stared at the wall and thought. He assumed it must be night now. His Mother and sister would have been waiting for him to get home for dinner. He would have more than likely been missed by now – his car would have been found, unlocked with his gym bag in the back. His Mother would have reported him missing, his Father out searching the streets and his old hidey holes from when he was younger. His little sister would be curled up in bed or on the couch, clinging to the teddy that Ben had bought her when she was born.  
  
A great, hollow sadness pulsed briefly with his fear.  
  
Ben suddenly became aware of breathing behind him; there was a flash of white in front of him. A hand, pale, slim – almost skeletal – held a steaming cup of mint hot chocolate. Ben winced; his favourite flavour. Ben sipped it through a straw.  
  
“They’ll be looking for me,” he said between sips. “They’ll find my car almost immediately; they know I went to the gym. They’ll have CCTV of you.”  
  
“Hush.” A single finger tapped on top of his head. His shoulders were starting to ache in pain from being twisted. The lights brightened. The chair began to turn.  
  
“I don’t want to see who you are.”  
  
“Oh, but you must, Mr. Organa. You’re here for me. You’re to live with me. When I turn you around, open your eyes and look at me. If you don’t, I’ll staple your eyelids open.”  
  
A wet mouth noise, a snapping click and the chair spun around. Ben faced the room with his eyes shut. A finger tapped incessantly on his chest, and then on his eyelids. Ben opened his eyes.  
  
To Ben, seated, he seemed tall where he stood in his kimono. A stocking mask was held in his hand, limp, as though it might fall at any moment. He turned his back to Ben and dropped the robe, tying it, instead, around his hips to provide a small modesty.   
  
That would come later.  
  
The muscles of his back were trained, yet still the man was impossibly slim; they flexed in the dim light of the parlour as he set up an old projector.  
His captor turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Ben, all smiles, all jags and stains.  
  
“Holy Mother of Jesus.”  
  
He recognised the man that was putting his robe back on, pulling it over his arms and shoulders. He knew the man that was walking back to the wheelchair, moving Ben so he was situated in the centre of the room.  
  
“Do you want to know why I am doing this?”  
  
Ben nodded weakly. “I would, more than anything. I was too afraid to ask.”  
  
“Look.”  
  
The projector started up. The first slide was a picture of Ben in the photography shop, clipped from the CCTV camera behind the till. He was smiling at Hux, no hint of joking on his face.  
  
“Do you see now?”  
  
“Not exactly.”  
  
Hux rapidly went through his slides.  
  
Click. Ben crouched down in the park, camera around his neck, throwing some bread for a bird with a broken wing.  
Click. Ben leaning on his best friend, Poe; Poe’s arm is around him, drunkenly stumbling out of a club on their way back to Ben’s house.  
Click. Ben holding his little sister’s hand, beaming down at her as she waved a certificate for an award she won.  
  
“Do you see?”  
  
“I think so.”  
  
Click. Ben swimming in the gym pool after hours, muscles in his arms taut, gliding through the water with little effort.  
Click. Ben using a weight machine on his legs, muscles pronounced underneath his skin, using barely any effort at all.  
Click. Ben lifting weights, his abdominal muscles sticking to his white shirt, almost translucent as sweat dripped from him.  
  
“Do you see now?”  
  
“I think I almost have it.”  
  
Click. Ben curled up on his couch, nose in a book, lost far away in a world of science fiction, amusement and content lighting up his eyes.  
Click. Ben laying on his bed, a soft smile on his face as he watched yet another _Star Wars_ marathon.  
Click. Ben asleep in bed; the image was grainy, as though it had been taken from a video clip. He was stretched out, his v-line on show.  
  
“Do you see now?”  
  
“Oh my God.” The words were drawn out, as a child would speak as they cried.  
  
“Is this art?”  
  
“Art?” The fear in Ben’s face was written plainly, and it freed Hux to speak.  
  
“Yes, this is art. _You_ are a work of art. The way your facial features measure up to fit inside the frames of your face perfectly, the way your muscles ripple under your skin with little effort, the way you smile, admittedly, a little goofily, when your friend makes you laugh. The way you are so endearing to your younger sister, the way you teach her the ways of the world, to teach her how to be a good soul. How you stand by your Mother with a straight back, there to have her back should she need it. The way you protect your friends,” Hux paused to click the button on his remote.  
  
The slide changed to a picture of Ben, staring down with reverence at someone who had tried to endanger Poe, his fists clenched at the sides of his hips.  
  
“You are a work of art, Ben Organa-Solo.”  
  
Ben’s head had dropped, his mind was working overtime. How had Hux gotten into his house to take photos of him when security was all over? How had Hux followed him for so long – some of the photos were _months_ old; how had none of his bodyguards noticed that? How had _he_ not noticed it?  
  
“You are a man of this world, Ben Organa, and you are a man in which the world needs more of.”  
  
“Then why are you intent of taking me out of it?”  
  
“Taking you out of it?” Hux laughed. It was a bitter sound, more of a bark than a laugh, but his eyes lit up with amusement. “I have no intentions of taking you out of this world, Mr. Organa.”  
  
“Then what am I doing here?”  
  
Hux licked his lips, the scar atop his lip shining bright with saliva in the light of the projection screen. He stared down at Ben and Ben had the overwhelming feeling that he was prey, and the man a hunter.  
  
“I have need for a man like you in my life.”  
  
Ben stayed silent, staring at the floor, trying to process the man’s words. When he looked up again, Hux was smiling at him; a sharp toothed smile, stained yellow with nicotine. He placed his hand on Ben’s chest, directly above the teen’s pounding heart. Leaning in to the teen, Hux felt the teen’s heartbeat quicken, able to feel it pounding even under the thick afghan; it was almost vibrating with the speed it was beating at.  
  
Ben leaned back as the lean became more intimate and then, Hux’s lips met his.


End file.
